


I come to you in pieces (so you can make me whole)

by RoisinDubhCosplay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Fix-it fic, Heaven, I Blame Tumblr, I'll Just Wait Here Then, M/M, Post-Finale, Series Finale, i didn't even ship it, no more silence, the angel who waited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:54:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27866469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoisinDubhCosplay/pseuds/RoisinDubhCosplay
Summary: “Well, Castiel helped.”And suddenly the music stops, the room is silent; the words sink in and drown out all the rest as understanding almost pulls the earth from below his feet. ~~~Finale AU, fix-it, because Dean Winchester would never dismiss Cas the way he did in those last two episodes. Still waiting for the secret 15x21 episode in which Dean (and later, Sam) actually reunite with everyone. Minor swearing.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 70





	I come to you in pieces (so you can make me whole)

**Author's Note:**

> I've watched Supernatural from the very beginning. I've loved Castiel from the first time I saw him. I've always loved his relationship with Dean BUT I've never shipped them. Funnily enough, even after 15x18 I thought that Dean would not feel the same way. Cue the finale, cue the absence of Castiel when we all know he should have been there, cue me catching up on seasons 14 and 15 in two weeks and watching compilations of Dean and Castiel throughout the seasons and it just clicked. It made sense. Now it's 2020, and I'm back in a fandom that I'd abandoned sometime after season 13.  
> And it hurts. After 15 years, I should really have known better.

„It’s okay. You can go now.”

And it’s really _not_ okay, not like this, it wasn’t supposed to end like this; but there’s no saving him now, no God given intervention, nothing good ever comes out of it. And maybe this is still better than the million other ways he should have died before and he can feel the pain blossoming in his chest, spreading from that wound that he cannot see but damnit, he _feels_ it, feels the rebar move as he breathes too shallowly, and he knows that the adrenaline that keeps the pain at bay is fading, and Sammy is crying and he’s got to be strong, one last time, just one smile, _it’s gonna be okay Sammy_ , and maybe this isn’t the way he wanted it, but it’s peaceful, and ordinary, some ironic twist of fate that has led to this place, and maybe, just maybe, he can rest now.

* * *

He opens his eyes, blinking against the brightness, taking a deep breath and –

This isn’t right. The air feels wrong in his lungs, but he can feel his heart beating, so that's something.

For a moment Dean just stands still, absolutely rigid, focusing on his surroundings, the gentle breeze rustling the trees, the distant sound of a humming motor, the cawing of a bird. There’s something eerily familiar about the scenery, and it’s weird because something still feels completely off, yet he can’t put his finger on it.

Instinctively, his hand goes to the waistband of his jeans. No weapon. He’s defenseless, alone; it makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He trains his eyes on the nearby hedge; he swears he can hear the leaves rustling. His breath catches in his throat, he can feel every muscle in his body going taut, and then –

Nothing.

He stills, slowly lowering his hands from their defensive position, and it is then that he realizes he can’t feel the burn on his forearm anymore, from when he hit the hot stove making pancakes, and didn’t he bump knee first into the door frame just this morning when he played with Miracle?

There’s no pain. Not even the slightest ache. And it should be there, loud and omnipresent and fucking hurting because he died.

He _died_.

The memory hits him like a shockwave; suddenly Dean finds himself on the ground, hands shaking, automatically wandering to his chest where the phantom pain of the metal rod is flickering like a broken lightbulb in a window that is a thousand miles away. It’s not real, this aching, just a memory.

Sammy.

Oh God, Sammy.

There’s a burning in his eyes as Dean forces himself to get off the ground, his legs like lead, his heart hammering in his chest when he starts to understand. He perceives the house somewhere up the road, and he starts to walk, slowly, treading his worn-out boots into the pavements and feeling his heartbeat echo in his ears. He knows that house. Even from far away, when he can’t really see it, he knows that he’ll find a bench outside that house, the door will creak just a little because no one ever remembers to oil the hinges, the floorboard next to the flipper machine will be a little bit lose. There’s knife marks on the counter.

Heaven is, after all, a place of memories.

It’s a realization that almost pulls the ground from below his feet; he lets out a shaky laugh which might be more of a sob. He’s made it to Heaven.

And so he walks, it’s not that far, and he tries as hard as he can to push aside those other memories. Sam’s forehead pressed against his own, his touch the one thing keeping him from breaking apart; the Empty and Death and Castiel, _Cas_ , who cared about the whole world because – no, he can’t go there, it’s a dangerous memory, it’s a kind of hurt that he’s kept stored away, safe in a corner of his soul unless he does the wrong thing and talks about it. That loss is still too raw, too overwhelming, and this is Heaven, he shouldn’t have these memories here.

The Roadhouse greets him with the familiar scent of wood and smoke and a tinge of motor oil. Dean steps around the corner, and stops. For a second, he stops dead in his tracks, and then Bobby turns his head and just stares, mouth slightly open, eyes wide and disbelieving and suddenly filling with tears.

“Hey, Bobby.”

It’s a stupid greeting, and it doesn’t sound right, but then he’s got Bobby’s arms wrapped around him, feels his shoulders shaking ever so slightly, and something falls into place.

“Damnit, boy,” he can hear him muttering, voice muffled against his jacket but heavy with grief nonetheless. “You shouldn’t be here. Not now. Not now.”

For a moment they just stand like this, and maybe they’re both crying, because he’s right, as always Bobby is right. It’s okay, it’s how he always wanted to go, but it’s a little too much and a little too soon, it’s okay, but it’s not good, either.

They sit down on the bench eventually, side by side, Bobby and Dean, and he might as well be fourteen again and waiting for Dad to come back from the hunt.

But Sam’s not here.

“This… this isn’t a memory,” Dean says, trying to make it sound like a statement rather than the uncertain question that it is. Bobby shakes his head. There’s still a teardrop lingering on his stubbly, grey beard, too stubborn to run its course down his face and vanish. 

“Heaven don’t work like that anymore. It’s not like a collection of memories playin’ on a loop. It’s for new memories. Your mom and dad – they’re just down the road.” He chuckles softly and points at the Roadhouse behind them. “There’s darts inside and pool. Your mom’s leading the champions’ lists for both. Poor John.”

There’s a lump in his throat the size of a pool ball. He throws a sideway glance at Bobby, cap slightly frayed at the edges, grey beard and worn out jeans, and he doesn’t look a day older than he did when he was wheeled away on that gurney a lifetime ago. It makes him wonder how his parents will look like. Do people age in this kind of Heaven? Do they de-age?

Suddenly there’s music from inside the house. It startles him. He knows that song, though he can’t remember the name. Bobby claps his shoulder.

“Wanna get inside? The others will be happy to see you. That is, after they’ve kicked your ass for getting here so soon.”

Dean knows that his friend would like to ask more, find out what happened, but it’s Bobby. Bobby who always just _understands_ , who must know that it’s too early to talk about it. So they leave the bench, and it’s fascinating how familiar even the gravel beneath his boots feels. His breath catches in his throat when he spots the Impala parked just around the corner, and he can’t help but stop, run a hand over the bonnet and let the memories flood his mind.

“Hey baby,” he mutters, the words leaving the tip of his tongue the same way they always do, and he can almost see Sam rolling his eyes. Something warm shifts inside his chest and spreads through his body all the way to his fingertips; he tears his gaze from the car and lifts his head to look at the front door of the roadhouse.

“Do you lovebirds need another moment?” Bobby asks, raising his eyebrows in mockery, and it’s Dean’s turn to roll his eyes and follow the older man into the house.

He steps over the threshold, and for a split second he thinks he’s jumped back in time. He remembers, from the jukebox in the corner to the pool table and the collection of single malt whiskies on the shelf, right below the mirror with the crack in the lower left corner.

“Dean.”

One long moment he can only stare at Jo, smiling and young and just so alive; there’s a twinkle in her eyes that hasn’t been there before. Images play inside his mind, of blood and tears and the howling of beasts; the lump in his throat grows to the size of a football.

“I am so sorry, Jo.”

The next thing he knows, she’s got her arms wrapped around him, face buried against his chest, her small shoulders shaking as she says, “It’s okay. It wasn’t your fault. It’s okay.”

He looks over her shoulder and smiles at Ellen, a rag stuck in the pocket of her jeans, a glass of beer in her hand. She just nods courtly, not wanting to interrupt the moment, but he can see the tears glistening in her eyes and feels his own eyes burning again. When they part, the music starts again. There’s a small stage that he only spots just now; there are instruments and a long-haired guy trimming his guitar with a riff that sends shivers down Dean’s spine.

A horrible thought enters his mind.

“Don’t tell me that’s – they’re not dead, too, are they? Kansas?”

“It’s a coverband, moron.”

It’s such a Jo thing to say, and Dean lets out a shaky laugh. He takes a beer from Ellen. He’s aware of the fact that no one is asking him what happened. He’s grateful; there are things he cannot say out loud, not now, maybe never. He doesn’t know how much time passes, it could be minutes, it could be days. It’s good to be home. It really is.

“He’s gonna be here, you know?”

Bobby’s voice startles him. On the wooden floor, there are tiny pieces of paper that he has nibbled from the bottle. Bobby looks at him knowingly, and Dean can feel his stomach clench and his chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with his phantom injury.

“Sam will get here.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Of course he will. If anyone should get to Heaven, it’s Sam, but he also deserves a long, happy life so he’ll probably have to wait. It’s okay, he’s got more of his family back than he could ever dream. It’s alright.

“Dean… he’ll be here. Soon. No, wait, here me out,” Bobby says when Dean opens his mouth to object, “See, time works differently in Heaven. You’ll see. 40 years on Earth can feel like four weeks in here.”

“So it’s the opposite of,” _Hell_ , he almost says, “school.”

Bobby chuckles.

“I guess so. It’s a mysterious place we’re in. There’s just a vague sense of time, and it changes constantly. It’s hard to explain, but you’ll find that out for yourself.”

Dean watches the people at the bar, listens to the band that has started to play. He really has lost all sense of time.

“Jack did all this?” he asks in awe.

“Well, Castiel helped.”

And suddenly the music stops, the room is silent; the words sink in and drown out all the rest as understanding almost pulls the earth from below his feet. Bobby stands there with a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, raising one eyebrow as if it that was enough to confirm what Dean doesn’t even dare to ask.

_He made it out._

_He’s here._

Suddenly the memories come crashing in on him; he feels his hands start to shake as he recalls those last moments, the gaping wound in his heart throbbing with every broken sob echoing from the walls when Death, and Cas, are long gone.

“You okay, boy?”

He nods, still shell-shocked.

“Yeah, I just – I thought he –“

And it occurs to him that Bobby probably doesn’t even know what happened. He may have talked to Cas, practical discussions about how this new Heaven works, probably asking for him and Sam, but anything else?

“He died, Bobby. He gave his life for mine, and what did I do? Get myself killed anyway.” His throat hurts when the words leave his mouth. He can barely look at Bobby, and he wonders how he’ll ever be able to look at Cas again. Cas, who wanted him to have a life. Who wanted him to be happy. “How can he ever forgive that?”

Bobby scratches him head and remains silent for a moment.

“I think”, he says after a few long heartbeats, “that he has already forgiven you. When you give your life for someone, every single day that person gets, every single, happy day is enough. It’s not a bazar, and a life is not traded like coin, you of all people should know that.”

And it’s true; Dean thinks back to the Crossroads deal, and it was a shitty deal really, one year for him, a long life for Sam, but he’d do it again any day, no questions asked.

He would have switched places with Cas without thinking twice about it.

“Did you speak to him? Do you know where I can find him?”

He tries to sound as calm as possible, and if Bobby detects the urgency in his voice he doesn’t comment on it.

“Last time we spoke about you, he said that you’d be here eventually. Said he’d just wait here, then.”

Bobby stresses the last words, though Dean doesn’t know why. Heaven is endless. _Here_ can be anywhere. Still, he cranes his neck and scans the inside of the Roadhouse, just in case.

Suddenly he feels restless. He loves this place, these people, but he should be somewhere else. He needs to find Cas, he knows he does, and even though he understands, rationally, that he has all the time in the world and more, he needs to leave now.

“I’ll go for a ride.”

“Stopping by at your mum’s and dad’s?”

The thought hasn’t even crossed his mind, and Dean feels his cheeks burning with shame. Of course he should see them, it’s the logical thing to do, they’re family. He misses his mother, has missed her all his life and then some more after her second death.

He kinda misses his father, too. 

He feels a hand on his shoulder. Bobby is looking at him, as always understanding what Dean cannot fathom himself.

“It’s okay if you’re not ready. You will be.”

The lump in his throat is back. Bobby just gets it, and instinctively he pulls the older man into a hug.

“Thank you, Bobby. I’ll be back, I promise.”

He leaves the bar just as the band starts to play. The Impala is still in its spot, key in the ignition. The inside smells of cheeseburgers, gasoline, fresh earth; he can even detect Sam’s aftershave lingering subtly in the passenger seat.

He checks the rearview mirror and feels the sting of disappointment when the backseat remains empty.

* * *

The road opens up before him, endless and empty, wide slopes lined with pine trees and the occasional signs that blur as they pass. They don’t matter. He’s pretty sure there’s no speed limit in Heaven and he doesn’t even know where he’s going. All he knows is that he needs to get _there_ , wherever it is.

He’s scared. Part of him would love to slam the brakes and go back to the Roadhouse, because underneath the anticipation, there’s the lingering fear of facing his failure again.

It’s not even his fault that Cas died, deep down he understands that. It’s just such as Cas thing to do, sacrificing himself for the one he loves – a Winchester, through and through, for being a Winchester has never been less about blood than it has been during those last years – and with or without God’s help, there’s nothing Dean could have done to stop him. He’s been down that road before, and it’s not the worst way to go actually, saving someone you love.

But it’s a horrible thing to not move Heaven and Hell to get them back.

It’s that fact that he cannot forgive; although he knows that it was, logically, the right thing to do, the thing Cas _wanted_ , he cannot forgive himself that he never even tried.

Even after their ultimate victory, he didn’t try.

So maybe he was scared, at first. Scared of the implications of Cas’ confession, afraid to dig deeper into his own mind and maybe find something he wouldn’t like.

Rejection.

He’s 41 years old. He’s had two big loves in his life, and ultimately, he’s driven them both away, different circumstances, same outcome. He’s often wondered if he’s simply incapable of loving someone as his dad loved his mom, and Sam loves Eileen. He’s had his fair share of women, but between Cassie and Lisa, no one has ever given him the desire to quit, settle down, do what lovers do when they grow old. He’s not cut out for the white picket fence life; it’s a life for those who are at peace with themselves, and inside him, the silent war has never stopped raging. There’s a pretty decent chance that he’ll turn his love away just because he doesn’t trust himself, and how could he possibly do that to anyone?

How could he allow himself to feel that way about a man when it’s so much easier to hide behind his issues and push him away, again.

Truth is, he’s never thought about Cas that way. Hell, he isn’t even sure if Cas thinks about him _that_ way.

Somehow, the second option is almost more frightening.

Love is love is love, people say, and it’s true, but where is the line between one kind and the other?

If there’s one thing Dean knows, with unwavering certainty, it’s that he loves Cas.

He knows it because how else could one explain the heartache he’s felt, every time he watched him die; how could one explain this monumental feeling of loss, that gaping, dark hole in his chest aching with every unexpected memory of those better days. How could he feel so alive and whole and _just being_ in his presence, if he didn’t love him?

The funny thing is, he has never imagined anything beyond their usual banter. He’s never pictured him the way he’s pictured Cassie, or Lisa, or anyone he’s had before. But now that he does, it’s weirdly – right.

He feels his skin tingle as he recalls the last time they touched, Cas’ hand on his shoulder, so brief, so desperate; deep down, in his subconscious, he remembers the first time, too, amidst the blood and screams and horrors, a lifeline out of Hell that has stretched across a decade.

There’s always something about Cas’ presence that just grounds him. Something that puts the earth back under his feet; he used to think it was an angel thing, but it’s nothing divine or holy. It’s just Cas.

And he needs him back. Needs him, because ever since the Empty took him, he hasn’t felt whole, the world has been off-balance, the universe a little unhinged and he hasn’t stopped falling since.

The lights of a small town appear in the distance. There’s something vaguely familiar about the street here, too, though Dean can’t quite put his finger on it. Those small towns all look the same, after all. The night sky is illuminated by neon signs that mute the stars that are still there, even in Heaven. There are a few people up and about as Dean lets the car roll down the street. He tries not to dwell on the fact that they are all dead. A sign on one of the houses catches his eye. It’s a motel, the letters on the sign a little weathered, the curtains still closed in most windows.

_I raised you from perdition to be God’s ammunition, but now you need some rest, so I must do what’s best_

The Impala screeches to a halt in a parking spot when the song interrupts his thoughts. Female voices, high notes, moving light spots –

_And just wait here then_

“Oh, come on!” he whispers, grabbing the steering wheel tightly even though he knows that he ought to leave the car. He should get out and inside that crappy motel, maybe even get some sleep as he did all those years ago on a night that was so ordinary that he’s almost forgotten.

But he remembers now. The Kansas City motel, the phone call. And he remembers the girls at that school, many years later, the musical, the smirks and raised eyebrows and annoying arguments with Sam about a stupid nickname and two girls holding hands, foreheads touching, feathered wings made of wire and duct tape and, beneath his annoyance, barely there, this warm feeling in his chest upon listening to the story of the angel who waited.

_That’s all I’ll do._

He gets out of the car, for a moment just standing on the sidewalk, a little lost, a little scared.

_I’ll just wait here then, I’ll wait for you_

“Cas?” 

He’s said, yelled, cried, whispered the name a hundred times, a thousand times, but now his mouth is dry and his voice is raw as if he’d been screaming for years. And maybe he has, unbeknownst to himself.

It’s been a long decade, after all.

“Cas… please.”

Maybe he’s wrong. Maybe this isn’t the time and place, maybe Cas never meant to wait, how could he, after everything; maybe it really is a closed chapter of a finished story.

Maybe –

The world vanishes beneath his feet. For a moment he’s free falling, for less than a blink of the eye, then the earth is back, he stumbles, fighting for balance –

“Hello, Dean.”

A hand on his shoulder, familiar, _home_ , the world stops spinning and the earth settles firmly beneath his boots.

“Cas,” he rasps, barely breathing, and for a moment he just stands there, leaning into the touch on his shoulder as if Cas’ hand was the only thing keeping him from falling. It surely feels that way. Blue eyes lock with his own, looking at him and right into him, too; it’s too much and Dean averts his gaze.

“Cas, I’m so, _so_ sorry.”

“Me, too.”

The two words are so unexpected that Dean lifts his head and narrows his eyes. He almost laughs. The hand leaves his shoulder.

“What are you sorry for, hm? You saved me. Gave your life for me, and you say you’re sorry? Damnit Cas.”

“I never meant to hurt you like that.”

Now he really laughs, but it’s a bitter laugh. It’s so typically Cas, they’ve done this a dozen times before and he’s just so _tired_.

“Stop it, Cas. Please.”

Cas opens his mouth as if to say something, but he remains silent. He waits, as he always does, and suddenly Dean doesn’t know what to say. There’s so much that he _should_ say, even more that he’s afraid to say. He wants to pull his friend close and still he fears if he touches him he’ll vanish into air.

“This Heaven is magnificent,” he finally says, gesturing vaguely at his surroundings, the open street and the starry night sky that cannot quite be drowned out by the street lamps. “I’ve met the others, too. It’s awesome.”

His breath hitches at the last words. Yes, this Heaven is a wonderful place. But he can’t help thinking that he shouldn’t be here. Not yet. His friend died to give him a life, and he wasted this golden ticket.

He hates himself for thinking that at least it brought him back here.

“Can you – can you see what’s going on… back there?” he asks, a question that he didn’t know he had.

Cas smiles now, nodding slightly.

“Sam’s doing alright, Dean. I know that’s what you’re asking, isn’t it?”

Dean can feel his eyes starting to sting; the corners of his mouth twitch, his chin starts to tremble. He blinks once, twice, he won’t cry, not here, not now.

 _Thanks_ , he mouths, momentarily unable to speak. 

“If I could bring you back, I would,” Cas says, so quietly that Dean barely hears it. The words only register slowly in his muddled brain. “Knowing that I can’t ease your pain – it breaks my heart.”

There’s a shimmer in his eyes that has nothing to do with the neon light of the street lamp. Suddenly he looks much younger, like he did back then, and it makes Dean wonder how long Cas would have waited here if he hadn’t been so utterly stupid to get killed by a damn piece of iron and vampire clowns.

It’s so ridiculous that it makes him want to cry, or punch someone.

It is only then that the true meaning of Cas’ words hits him.

“You can’t leave here, can you?” Cas shakes his head. “But you would send me back? Even if it meant – even if we – if you –“

“I want you to be happy, Dean. More than anything, I want you to be happy.”

It’s such a sincere statement, and yet there’s love in every syllable, so palpable and real that it makes him ache to the very core. He thinks of the past hours at the roadhouse, of the car ride that took him to this place, and then he allows himself to look at Cas, really look at him, and if someone asked him what home feels like, he’d say, _a lot like this_.

He crosses the short distance between him and Cas with one step, and then he has his fingers curled around the fabric of the familiar coat and his face buried against the crook of Cas’ neck.

“I am happy, you dumbass.”

He can feel Cas breathing against him, one hand on his neck, one on his back.

“I should have tried to get you back,” he murmurs, “I should have looked for you, and I wanted to, Cas, you gotta believe me, I wanted to, but I was – I was afraid. And I – I shouldn’t even say that, it’s so cheap, and you deserve better. I need you, but I don’t deserve you.”

He feels rather than hears Cas chuckle quietly, so unexpectedly that he pulls away from the embrace.

Cas shakes his head.

“You don’t think you deserve happiness. That never gets old. I thought what I said to you before I left was enough to make you understand.” He lets his gaze drift to somewhere beyond Dean’s shoulder for a moment before his eyes settle on Dean again. All mockery gone, it feels like Cas is staring right into that jagged, crudely stitched-up thing that’s his soul. “I meant every word I said. I hoped that someday you’d see yourself the way I see you. It’s all I want for you.”

“Cas –“

“And it’s okay if you don’t feel the same way. I’ve accepted that long ago. This is your Heaven, not mine. If you want me gone –“

“Stay.”

The single word stops Cas’ monologue, and Dean realizes that he’s grabbed his friend by the wrist. His throat is dry and his knees are shaking a little.

“I want you here, Cas. I _need_ you here. Don’t you dare leave me again or I swear I’ll lose my fucking mind.” The sheer thought sends his mind reeling, and the next words come without thinking. “I love you, Cas. I do. I _do_ , and I have for a long time, even if I didn’t see it, and I just – I want this. Us.”

His voice cracks under the truth, his breath catches in his throat.

_There's things, there's people, feelings, that I want to experience differently than I have before. Or maybe even for the first time._

His hand slides down Cas’ wrist. He feels Cas’ fingers entwine with his, so naturally, like puzzle pieces finally falling into place.

“Let’s go home,” he mumbles, suddenly overwhelmed by the moment. “It’s a long ride.”

But neither of them moves. After more than a decade, they have all the time in the world. They just remain where they are, foreheads touching, hands clasped tightly, finally home and just _being_.

> _Then I'll see your face_
> 
> _I know I'm finally yours_
> 
> _I find everything I thought I lost before_
> 
> _You call my name_
> 
> _I come to you in pieces_
> 
> _So you can make me whole_
> 
> (“Pieces”, Red)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a line from the song "Pieces" by Red.


End file.
